On a scale from 1 to 10, I’d say I’ve been taking this whole mid-life-crisis curveball at a steady 7. And by 7, I mean I planned a “piercing playdate” with my dear friend Martina last week. Yes, a piercing playdate at some dodgy tattoo parlor on Washington Avenue replete with a tattoo artist who told me to fuck off when I warned him that eating a Five Guys burger was “poison.” #CustomerServiceAtItsFinest
Anyhoo, with my 40th birthday mere days away, it’s wildly apparent I’m going through a transition of identity and self confidence. As in…
- I’ve been panicking about death. Yep, this is the first time I’ve questioned my own mortality and something as benign as a runny nose has me running to my physician like a psychopath.
- I obsess over the health of my parents. I think we all do but this one gets waaaayyyy worst with age.
- I’m starting to have more questions than answers. Like, “Who am I?” or “Why am I doing this?” or “Why are the pores on my nostrils the size of dimes?” or “Why is Selena Gomez dating the Weeknd?” or “Why is Madonna using so many damn fillers?” You know, really pressing stuff, folks.
Thus the piercing.
Martina went first. This is Martina…
You see, Martina decided to be a savage and requested not one, not two, but THREE piercings (the daith and two inner rooks) in her right ear from our newfound friend Jose (also in the picture). Little did we know that piercings hurt like a motherfucker, and I suffered three mini panic attacks, lost all sensation in my hands, and turned a horrid shade of green during Martina’s whole ordeal, BUT HEY, she was GOING BIG OR GOING HOME.
Bible — Martina is a boss. After witnessing her strength, courage and downright questionable/poor life choices that morning, she’s now a solid 20.5 out of 10 in my book. #LoveYouMeanIt
I was up next. I was woozy. Weary. On edge. Baffled. But after chugging a Coca-Cola as though it had magical healing properties and a little pep talk from Marti, I was ready to pierce my tragus. For you freaky voyeuristic types, enjoy this Steven Speilberg-esque video of the traumatic ordeal…
Moral of the story? That day in a sketchy tattoo parlor with my ride-or-die chick as Bob Marley tunes wafted through the air was truly liberating. Sure, it was scary. Naughty. Painful. Vexing.
But so freeing and beautiful — yes, beautiful! — in the end.
So scare yourself! Surprise yourself! Shock your very soul. Embrace the weird.
Now? Honestly, I feel like I’m killing it at this mid-life crisis thing.